


Two Truths and a Lie

by Lady_in_Red



Category: Pitch (TV 2016)
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, Post-Canon, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-06
Updated: 2019-04-06
Packaged: 2020-01-05 12:04:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18365636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_in_Red/pseuds/Lady_in_Red
Summary: The team plays a bonding game during a late-night layover, forcing a long overdue confrontation between Ginny and Mike.





	Two Truths and a Lie

**Author's Note:**

> I can't believe it's been more than a year since I posted. I started writing this for Lerayon for last year's Valentine's exchange, got stuck, and it's been buried ever since. But here it is, finally.

Ginny checks her phone, calculating how much longer she can stay in this fluorescent-lit bathroom before Blip barges in to check on her. Not long enough for the ibuprofen to kick in. She’ll just have to grit her teeth and pretend her arm isn’t aching until the medicine starts working.

The lighting doesn’t do her skin any favors, emphasizing the dark circles under her eyes. It’s been a really damn long day. Lightning diverted their flight to Toronto in Minneapolis at two a.m.  

Hours later, with the storms unimproved and their afternoon game with the Blue Jays likely postponed, Ginny wishes Al had pushed for them to go to a hotel instead of staying in the terminal. At least there she could dunk her elbow in an ice bucket without her teammates worrying about it. None of them noticed when she banged her elbow on a bulkhead getting off the plane, too busy teasing her about missing out on time with her buddy Drake, but they’ll fuss and worry and coddle her if they notice that she’s in pain. Except Lawson, who will just glare and growl, like usual these days. 

Ginny scrapes her hair back in a fresh ponytail, wincing as the motion strains her elbow, and gives up. The terminal is deserted, most of the lights dimmed, all the services closed. Even the gate agent and their flight crew left hours ago. Al and Buck are sleeping on cots two gates away. The rest of them are too keyed up from their bumpy landing to sleep just yet.

Laughter reaches her well before she gets back to her teammates, clustered in a couple rows of chairs or sprawled on the floor resting against piles of luggage. 

“Bullshit!” she hears Sonny say with a laugh. “Prove it. What’s 543 times 29?”

A rookie outfielder answers confidently and correctly. He can do pretty complicated math in his head. Not much use on the field, but she’s seen him use it to pick up women who don’t expect the baby-faced blonde with the sleepy blue eyes to have any brains in his head. 

She starts to lower herself to the floor near Blip, but feels a tug on the back of her sweatshirt. A glance over her shoulder confirms that Lawson has shoved over and made room next to him. Reluctantly, Ginny lets him draw her back onto the hard plastic seat, their arms pressed together, his knee nudging hers. Last season, this wouldn’t be anything unusual. This season, Ginny wishes she was anywhere else.

Sonny glances up and sees her. “Baker, your turn.”

Thirty sets of eyes lock on her. “What are we playing?” she asks.

“Two truths and a lie,” Sonny answers. His grin is more than a little evil.

Their captain likes to play games like this when they’re stuck somewhere with time on their hands. He claims it helps the team bond, but mostly her teammates just find excuses to brag about their sex lives. When she was first called up, they tried to bait her to share her stories too. They stopped doing that after her nude selfies leaked. Now they bitch even more than she does about the crap the tabloids print about her. A few of them have even been linked with her in bullshit stories based on nothing more than photos of the team out to dinner when they’re on the road. 

Some of the fans believe that garbage, too. Amelia won’t even let her look at her fan mail this season, there are so many dick pics and lectures about how she’s going to Hell mixed in with the letters from little girls. The constant media requests for sexy photos to run with her interviews seem tame by comparison. 

Ginny shakes her head. “Pass. I’m too tired.”

“We’re all tired,” Blip chides. 

Ginny just glares at him. “I need to put up five or six good innings tomorrow.”

He just laughs. “Is that an excuse or a truth?”

Ginny sighs. Fine. He’ll get his truths. “My jersey number in high school was 00. My middle name is Mabel. My favorite cereal is Lucky Charms.” 

“You used those last month,” Robles protests.

“Seriously, guys, I can’t think of anything else.” Her elbow is throbbing in time with her heartbeat. Mike nudges her, jarring her arm, and she bites her tongue to stop from wincing. 

“Come on, we don’t bite.” His rumbling voice so close makes her shiver, just enough that his eyes narrow. They are rarely this close, so close that Ginny can’t help but notice just how much his aging lumberjack look still turns her on. It’s damned inconvenient, especially with their teammates around them. 

“Unless you’re into biting,” another rookie says with a leer, like he can see inside her head. 

This is why she has her rule. Before she can say a word, Dusty swats the kid’s head and lectures, “Dude, Baker don’t bang ballplayers.”

The kid is too tired or too stupid to understand how overprotective her teammates are, because his brow furrows and he protests, “But I heard Davis—” 

“Not another word,” Lawson barks, and the kid pales. 

Of course, Trevor hasn’t been as discreet as he promised. She hears the whispers now and then, but her teammates shut it down. Even Robles, who mooned over her embarrassingly obviously until he heard about Ginny’s code against dating ballplayers. 

“C’mon now, Baker,” Lawson coaxes. “Two truths and a lie.”

She closes her eyes for a moment, trying to concentrate, and is surprised how hard it is to open them again. If she doesn’t get some sleep soon, she won’t be able to get the ball over the plate tomorrow. “Um, okay. I never pitched relief until last year. I skipped prom to go to a Nats game.” She might have told one of those stories to the guys, she can’t really remember. Blip might know. What doesn’t Blip know? “And, on the day we met, Lawson told me Leo DiCaprio was prettier than me.”

That last one draws some laughs. As soon as they choose wrong, she’s going to go lie down somewhere. Maybe her arm won’t hurt when she wakes up. 

Sonny scratches his cheek and narrows his eyes at her. “Baker, please tell me you did not skip your prom for a ballgame.”

Ginny shrugs, determined to avoid giving anything away. In truth, it was a no-brainer. They had great seats, and it ended up being the last game she ever saw with Pop.

“Probably for the best,” Salvamini says with mock seriousness. “We’ve seen you dance. There could have been injuries.”

Ginny glares at him while the entire bullpen laughs like it’s the best joke they’ve heard all week. It’s not like she actually stabbed Dusty’s foot with her high heels. She only bruised him a little, and it was just the one time. That doesn’t make her a bad dancer. 

“You cheated.” Mike’s gruff voice startles her. 

Ginny looks at him. Lawson is working a piece of gum like it personally offended him, a sure sign that he’s pissed. “Did not,” she protests, feeling far too much like a little kid sent to the principal’s office. She should have told an obvious lie. She’s engaged, she has a lower back tattoo, she sings cover songs on YouTube. Any of those would have been better, but she’s too tired to play these games with any real strategy. 

He snorts and folds his beefy arms across his chest. “I did tell you diCaprio was prettier, I heard you tell Al you’d never played relief before you got called up, and you mentioned once that you never went to a single dance in high school. So where’s the lie, Baker?”

Rumbles of complaint ripple through the team. Livan makes a little  _ tsk  _ noise, shaking his head in disappointment. Damn it. Who knew he was actually listening all those times, or that he’d remember?

Ginny tries staring her captain down, but of course she cracks first. Mike has decades of experience bending opponents and teammates to his will with no more than the power of his glare.  

“C’mon, Ginny,” Blip prompts, and she shifts her gaze to him.

“I met Lawson years ago, way before he made that crack about DiCaprio.” Not a story she ever intended to tell, and she’s not about to tell it if she can get away with it.

“How come we haven’t heard this story before?” Sonny looks back and forth between them, then frowns. “Did he give you his phone number? Ugh, no, wait, his room number.” Sonny shudders, and uncomfortable laughter ripples through the team.

Because the idea of Mike hitting on her is ridiculous, gross even. Like these guys don’t flirt with female fans younger than her all the time. Much as she’s glad her teammates don’t ogle her anymore, she’s not thrilled to be treated like everyone’s little sister either. This story certainly isn’t helping. 

“I was 13, so no,” Ginny explains, and Mike stiffens. When she risks a glance, he’s looking at her intently, as if struggling to find Ginny’s face among the thousands of kids he’s talked to or signed for over the years, but her chipmunk cheeks disappeared when she hit her last growth spurt. She doesn’t look much like that kid anymore. “It was a Braves game. I caught a ball during warm-ups.”

The guys all look at Mike. “That doesn’t count, Baker.” And then he pats her knee. Like she’s still a kid. 

_ Oh, hell no.  _ She’s put up with more shit than these guys will ever understand, but she can’t take Mike Lawson patronizing her. “We talked. And it was definitely you. Your walk-up song was the guitar solo in ‘Sweet Child of Mine’ and the Padres were shut out that night.” 

“It’s been a long damn time, Baker. You can’t tell me you remember every kid.” There’s that patronizing note to his voice again.

“Maybe your memory’s going, old man.” She puts more bite into those words than teasing.

“Maybe you just weren’t that memorable, rookie,” Lawson bites back.

The guys hoot at their sniping, although Blip is watching them a little too closely, and he’s not laughing. Ginny’s not laughing either. She’d really like to punch Lawson in his smug face. That’s been happening a lot this season. Instead she gets up and walks away bothering to make an excuse. 

Ginny stretches out on the scratchy industrial carpet on the far side of the concourse, resting her side against the cold window. Wind and rain lash the panes, the occasional flash of lightning casting shadows across the empty gate. 

She’s dozing, her temple and her upper arm pressed against the cold glass, when she senses someone looming over her. Ginny cracks open an eye, hoping to see Blip’s shiny new loafers. No such luck. Scuffed boots and frayed jeans. 

“What do you want?” she grumbles, drawing her sweatshirt tighter around her. They really could keep the concourse warmer. 

Lightning flashes, and Lawson starts counting under his breath. At “four,” thunder shakes the concourse, echoing into the distance.

The glass vibrates under Ginny’s arm. They’re not going anywhere anytime soon.

“I always wondered how a pitcher from North Carolina ended up with my poster on her wall.”

“Pop thought I was nuts.” She doesn’t bother to deny it like she usually does. It seems pointless when Amelia must have told him. One reason she was glad to see their relationship flame out as quickly as it did. 

Mike crosses his arms, deeply tanned forearms visible under the turned-up cuffs of his flannel shirt. “You could’ve done worse.”

“I could’ve picked a pitcher,” she counters. Ginny has been a pitcher since she was 4, the sole focus of Pop’s coaching since she was 6. They went to that game to watch Greg Maddux pitch. Coming home and putting a catcher on her wall was Ginny’s own small rebellion. 

Mike winces as he crouches down. “You okay, rook?”

She almost laughs at that. No, she’s not okay. She’s hanging onto her career by her fingertips, just waiting for her elbow to give out again, and her teammates treat her like she’s made of glass. She should be able to talk to her captain about it, but her relationship with Lawson has been different since the end of last season. Awkward. Distant. “I banged my elbow on the bulkhead. It’ll be fine tomorrow.”

Mike glances across the terminal, where the guys are still talking. No one is looking in their direction. Mike’s gaze returns to her, and she can feel the weight of it. His voice is quieter, but firm. “That’s not what I meant. On the mound you’re all the way back, but off the field… your head’s just not in the game.”

He’s right, and it’s more than a little embarrassing to be called out on it. “I’m working on it.” She refused a prescription for anti-anxiety meds after she nearly had a panic attack on the mound during Spring Training, but she’s not about to tell Lawson about her therapy appointments. Between her career, her family, and her train wreck romantic history, she has plenty to talk about. 

“I can help, Baker. It’s part of my job.” He looks so sincere, he has no idea he’s part of the problem. 

“Not this time.” Ginny gives him a small smile, all the apology she’ll offer for pushing him away now. He really doesn’t understand.

Mike slowly rises to his feet, his knee popping as he winces. “Fine,” he says wearily. “But right now you’re going to talk to the trainers and get something for your elbow.”

Ginny tries to glare at him, but he just chuckles. “This is my job, too, rook. For now, at any rate.” And he holds out a hand to help her up.

* * *

  
Fourteen hours later, a bag of ice wrapped clumsily around her elbow, Ginny gratefully sinks onto the hotel bed and basks in the silence. All day, her teammates came up to her, one and two at a time, and asked if she and Lawson were fighting, and why. Private chats with the captain are rarely a good sign. Her teammates meant well, but it got old fast. 

She should spend a little more time reviewing hitters tonight, even though she’d rather cue up a cheesy comedy on her tablet and fall asleep early. She’s just starting to browse Netflix when there’s a knock on her door. “Coming,” she calls, hauling herself out of bed and crossing the room to put her eye to the peephole.

It’s Mike Lawson, wearing sweatpants and an Under Armour undershirt under an open flannel shirt, a six-pack of beer dangling from one hand. He’s scowling at the phone in his other hand. 

Only when she’s thrown open the door, Mike’s eyes widening as he looks at her, does Ginny remember what she’s wearing. Boxer shorts and an ancient Durham Bulls T-shirt. Mike looks away, his cheeks and ears flushing red. 

Ginny can’t remember the last time Mike came to her room. Last season? She expected him to meet her at breakfast or in the clubhouse to talk strategy before the game. That’s where they talk now. Not here.

Mike eyes her impatiently. “You going to invite me in?”

That is the absolute last thing she wants to do, but she doesn’t seem to have a choice. Ginny steps out of the way, letting him in. 

“I don’t know about you, but I need a beer.” Their flight finally arrived in Toronto at noon, and Al insisted that they practice after a short rest. Ginny could barely hit the strike zone, the fielders were dropping balls all afternoon, and Livan slipped in the showers and bruised the hell out of his right knee. 

Mike crosses the room, sets his six-pack on the tiny table by the window, turns around and frowns at her. Abruptly he yanks off his flannel and holds it out. “Put this on, would you?”

“Why?” Ginny knows why. Her shirt is at least one size too small, exposing a thin strip of her stomach and stretching tight across her braless breasts. It fit just fine when she first got it, in her early teens, but now it’s strictly around-the-house wear.

Mike gestures vaguely toward her with the shirt. “You know, your ….” he trails off, seeming to consider his words.

“Do not say tits, Lawson,” she warns.

He actually blushes at that, and she takes pity on him, shrugs into his shirt while he turns back to the table and pulls out two bottles out of the six pack.

He’s barefoot, and his undershirt strains across his broad chest and back, his thickly muscled arms now bare. She kind of loves the farmer tan he’s got going, the freckled pale expanse of his biceps, golden forearms dusted with sun-bleached hair. And that is exactly the kind of thought she can’t afford to have, especially not while she’s wearing his shirt, still warm from his body and smelling like him.

“What are you doing here?” she finally asks, her voice huskier than she’d like. 

Mike twists both beers open and stretches to offer her one. “During warm-ups I tossed a few balls into the crowd, like I always do. You threw yours back.” 

She takes the bottle, just for something to do. It takes her a second to realize he’s not talking about today. “You make the video guys look that up?” 

Mike just shakes his head. “I remembered on the field. You almost hit me. That night, not today.”

She sips her beer to hide her surprise. She definitely never told anyone that part. He came up to the wall and asked if she was crazy, then asked if she played baseball. “You told me I had a hell of an arm, and to stick with baseball.” Pop was furious when he came back from the concession stand and heard what she’d done. 

Mike nods. “You were going to tell me, the day you were called up, right?” He pulls out a chair and drops into it, takes a long swallow of his beer. 

“Yeah.” And he shut down her fangirling in about five seconds. Not the last time Lawson knocked her down with brutal honesty.

“I can be kind of a dick. You may have noticed.” Mike’s deadpan delivery is ruined just a little by the smile peeking out of his beard and the twinkle in his eyes.

“Just a little,” Ginny agrees, sipping her beer again. Lawson hasn’t shoved a weird new local beer in her hand in awhile, but she hasn’t been out to a bar with the guys in weeks, tired of their overprotection any time a man approaches her. “Hey, I know what you can do for me.” 

Mike eyes her warily. “What?”

Standing over him feels a little awkward, but sitting on the bed seems wrong too. Still, standing is just getting more awkward, so Ginny sits on the bed.

“Spit it out, Baker.”

Ginny takes a long gulp of her beer, an IPA she wouldn’t have been able to identify before she met Lawson. “Tell the guys to stop treating me like their little sister.”

Mike actually chokes on his beer, sputtering as he wipes it from his lips. “Are you serious?”

Ginny nods emphatically. “They won’t let me carry bags when we travel. They accuse reporters of sexism if they criticize my pitching. They scare off any guy who tries to talk to me.”

“They don’t do that,” Mike protests.

“Don’t act so innocent. You do it too.” Before Mike can answer, she continues, “Seattle, Lawson.”

She can see him trying to remember, and the moment when he does. Is he blushing? His ears turn a little red, his cheeks are impossible to see because he’s hiding behind finishing his beer. A cute young guy in a business suit approached Ginny at the hotel bar. All Mike had to do was whisper something to him, and he disappeared before Ginny even got his name. “I don’t think of you like a sister,” Mike grumbles.

“Then stop treating me like one.” She sure as hell doesn’t think of Lawson like a brother. Ginny’s gaze tracks from the hand he once skimmed down her back, to the hard chest she was pressed against, up the column of his throat to the lips that almost brushed hers. The moment that flipped a switch in her, wouldn’t let her go back to seeing him as just friend and mentor. 

“I don’t,” he growls, his eyes hot and dark on her. Mike puts down his bottle and heaves himself up from the chair, wincing as his knee pops. He’s lost a few pounds, but 17 years of wear and tear adds up. “I should go.”

Ginny should be relieved, but she rarely gets him alone, where they don’t have to pretend anything. She’s tired of pretending. “Why? We’re just two teammates having a beer.” Exactly what he said happened at Boardner’s. It didn’t feel like that. It felt like the best first date she ever had.

Mike looks down at her, brows furrowed. “I just wanted to tell you that I remembered Atlanta, okay?”

Great, now he’s thinking of her as a kid again. Just what she needs. Ginny stands, a little unsteady, heart pounding in her chest, and peels off his flannel shirt. She shoves it at him and sits down, grateful for the beer in her hand. “Fine. You told me. Go.”

Mike shrugs into the shirt, still looking puzzled, hesitates and sinks back into the chair with a groan. “Okay, what’d I do?”

“Nothing.” Absolutely fucking nothing but be her captain, sometimes her friend. Her batterymate. Not his fault that isn’t how she sees him anymore. Now he’s another asshole who plays games off the field. Ginny takes a long swig of beer, avoiding his stare. 

A slight smile twitches Mike’s lips. “Baker, I was married for 8 years. ‘Fine’ and ‘nothing’ mean I stepped in it. You gonna tell me what?”

Ginny keeps sipping her beer. It’s almost empty. She might need another if he doesn’t leave soon. “Nope.”

Mike leans back in his chair, settles in as comfortably as he can. “It’s past my bedtime, so I’m just gonna sit here and rest until you’re ready to talk.” 

"No, you’re not, old man.” 

“Watch me.” He folds his hands across his stomach. 

“What is wrong with you?” She lets out a frustrated growl.

“What’s wrong with  _ you_?” he tosses back with a smirk. 

That smirk is the last damn straw. “You, Mike. I can’t tell if you’re jerking me around on purpose or just really that bad with women. Calling me a duckling one minute and texting me for a cozy little date at Boardner’s the next. Acting like nothing happened, then cockblocking me all over the National League. Own your shit, Lawson.”   


His face drains of color. “Baker—” 

“Shut up. You wanted me to talk. I’m talking.” She gets up, starts pacing the room, wishes it was bigger. She can’t get far enough away. “Maybe I was kind of a duckling, but you encouraged it. And I  _ hated  _ you dating Amelia, you two talking about me behind my back like I was 12. Yeah, I was jealous, because I don’t get to be attracted to someone and just go for it even though there are huge red flags. I can’t even go on a date or to a party without ending up in every tabloid in the country.

“And when I do try to find someone, there you are, Mike. You don’t get to pretend nothing happened between us and act like a jealous ex, too. Pick one, so I can stop fantasizing about throwing a goddamn fastball at your face.”

Ginny is flushed and out of breath, and Mike hasn’t moved a muscle. She drains the rest of her beer, the cold bitterness exactly what she needs right now, and slams the bottle on the table so she won’t throw it at him. 

A heavy breath escapes him, and Mike scrapes a hand through his hair. “You done?” 

“Yeah,” Ginny snaps. “I’m done.” She feels hollowed out, all the anger and hurt churning through her for months gone. She sinks down to the bed, exhausted. 

Mike slowly leans forward, his eyes intent on hers. “Baker, I’m not trying to mess with you. I am doing everything in my power  _ not  _ to mess with you. Do you have any idea how many pitchers I’ve worked with?” She shakes her head. “Me neither. Because most of them didn’t last. You have such a short window to make yourself more than an honorary spot in Cooperstown. And I almost fucked that all up for you. I don’t want to end my career booted out for fraternizing, and I don’t want you to become a punchline. 

“So yeah, I get jealous when some asshole who was just hitting on the bartender starts sniffing around you. And I might warn him to leave you the fuck alone. Because it kills me that that jackass has a choice I absolutely do not have.” He isn’t calm, his voice is shaking a little, but he never raises his voice. He’s ... resigned. Like maybe Mike’s thought about this just as much as she has. 

And he’s right. Absolutely right in a way she can’t dispute, much as she wants to. It’s no one’s business but theirs who shares their beds, except it is the team’s business. If they have a fight on her start day, would it change how they played? Ginny remembers fighting with Trevor over the phone one night, and pitching a shutout the next day, but he wasn’t her catcher. 

Ginny should get up and tell him everything’s okay, walk him to the door, run through batters tomorrow like nothing has changed. Because it hasn’t. Tomorrow Mike will still be her catcher, her captain, and she honestly loves that. He makes her a better pitcher, every day. But he also makes her really stupid, so she asks, “What would have happened if Oscar hadn’t called?”

Mike looks away, thinks before he speaks. “I would’ve taken you home, fucked you half the night and sent you home before I got on a plane to Chicago. Won my goddamn ring and never looked back. That what you want to hear? Then you can hate me and put this whole thing behind us.” 

Arousal and hurt and confusion swirl inside her again. He’s right. That would help, to think Lawson was just after a last lay on his way out of town. That maybe his curiosity got the better of him after all those mornings working out beside her in skin-tight athletic gear. Ginny never saw that side of him, but it wouldn’t be out of character with his reputation. “Is that true?”

Mike chews his lip a little, like he misses the gum he chews relentlessly during games. She’s seen him demolish a whole pack when they went extra innings. He rolls his head on his neck, grimacing when it pops loudly, and levers himself up out of the chair. “Come here.”

Ginny hesitates. He doesn’t mean to…

“Rookie. Get your ass over here.”

The command works better than coaxing, her gameday instincts making her rise and close the few feet between them before she really thinks about it. Lawson is big, not overly tall but broad, solid. He radiates heat. Probably sleeps naked. He seems like the type. And damn, now her nipples are hard, scraping against her thin T-shirt. 

To his credit, he barely glances at them, though his jaw does go tight from what she can tell under the beard. Instead Mike reaches down to lightly grip her wrists, pulls her arms up until she gets the hint and wraps her arms around him. His arms come around her, his fingertips just digging into the hair at the nape of her neck. Her hair was down that night. 

Mike pulls her closer, holds her, and the fit is slightly off. No heels this time. But the collar of his flannel is just under her lips and the warm, woodsy scent of his soap fills her nose. Looking back, Ginny can see all the moments when Mike was trying to see if she was attracted to him. She remembers how she ducked and dodged, turning serious questions into jokes, until the moment she was in his arms, his warm palm sliding down her spine, and everything clicked for her. 

She doesn’t wait as long this time before drawing back to look at him. They’re so close she can only see his eyes, dark lashes and changeable hazel eyes she couldn’t see as well on a dark street. They bump noses, just like last time, until she changes the angle, slides closer. His whiskers brush her upper lip, and then his lips are on hers.

She sighs in relief, then laughs a little as his beard tickles her chin, her upper lip.

Mike growls, “Something funny?” 

She shakes her head just as he moves to kiss her again and misses. Ginny laughs again, and his hand tightens in her hair, holding her still. Heat surges through her when he takes control, his tongue teasing her lips open. Every thought in her head flies away as they kiss. Well, not every thought. His sweatpants do little to conceal the growing bulge pressed against her.

But his hands don’t slip under her shirt, don’t wander down to cup her ass. His lips don’t move down to her neck, he doesn’t whisper filthy promises in her ear. Mike wants her, that’s obvious, but he’s not pushing this in that direction at all. This kiss is deep but undemanding, with just an edge of lust behind it. It’s the main event, not a step toward something more naked. 

Ginny pulls back, looks at him with a question in her eyes. 

His lips are red, a little swollen hidden in that ridiculous beard, and she should worry about beard burn but she can’t because he’s smiling, and it’s sweet and a little sad. Mike’s hands slip down to her waist, rubbing his thumbs gently over her hipbones. “You still blow me away. Every damn day. And one day I was lecturing Robles, and it just hit me over the head. I couldn’t leave town without seeing if you felt the same way.” 

Ginny lets her hand slide down from his neck to his chest. His heart beats fast under her palm. “So what do we do now?” 

His smile fades. “Nothing. Not while I’m still playing.”

“And when you’re not playing?”

He squeezes her hips before letting her go. “If you have any interest in a fat, unemployed asshole with at least one knee surgery ahead of him, then we’ll talk.”

This sucks. But Ginny isn’t going to do something stupid, like cry over it. “If Michael B. Jordan calls, you might have some competition.” 

Mike rolls his eyes at that. “Of course. And if…” He screws up his face in concentration. “Shit, I’m having trouble thinking of someone hotter than you.”

Ginny shoves him. “Kiss-ass.”

Mike grins, and she can’t help it, she surges up on her tiptoes to kiss that grin. He wraps her up in his arms again, but doesn’t let the kiss go any deeper. He presses his face to her hair and kisses her ear. “I need to go.” 

“I know.” She squeezes him tighter, one more time. If she’s honest with herself, and she’s really been trying, her feelings for Mike have some hero worship mixed in, plus she’s always wanted what she couldn’t have. That’s how she made it this far. Right now, this feels real, but who knows how they’ll feel come September.

He lets her go, moves toward the door with purpose. “Training room, 10:30. We’ll run batters while Kiki winds this tired old machine back up. Okay, rookie?” Lawson looks back at her as he opens the door.

“You ever gonna call my cutter?” she asks, grateful he opened the door so she can’t grab him one more time.

Mike winks. “You don’t have a cutter, Baker. But you don’t have a fastball either, so you never know.”

Ginny snorts a laugh. “Get out of here, old man.” 

Mike gives her that chin-tip acknowledgement, that quick, no-nonsense “I see you” that she’s always loved, and he closes the door behind him. 

For about five seconds, Ginny considers calling Evelyn. Ev would scream into the phone and demand she recount every detail. No matter how career-wrecking an affair between them might be, Evelyn has always been onboard with the idea. Then again, Evelyn has also been bugging Mike to pull a Sam Malone and buy a local brewpub with her ever since her partnership with Will blew up. 

She doesn’t call Ev. Instead, Ginny gets in bed with her tablet, pulls up heatmaps and tries to get her head back in the game. 


End file.
